


by the skin of our teeth

by Sar_Kalu



Series: Good Omens Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, Angst to Fluff, Happy Ending tho, M/M, Mostly angst actually, Prompt Fic, mid-apocal-oopsie-daisy-that-didn't-go-to-plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 02:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19758973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Aziraphale escapes the portal to Heaven and leaves to find Crowley at his Mayfair flat... except Crowley's long since gone looking for Aziraphale, and all that's left is a puddle of ex-demon goo on the floor.......No witchfinders were harmed in the making of this fic; just the use of "frivolous" miracles (sorry Archangel Gabriel, sir).





	by the skin of our teeth

The Witchfinder advanced on Aziraphale with eyes that flickered with an incandescent fury that made the man’s extended finger shake, “you’re one of them,” Shadwell declared, his brogue turning clipped as his gaze remained fixed upon Aziraphale’s stunned expression, “you’re a witch!”

Aziraphale gave a smile that spoke more of bemusement that he, an Angel, was being accused of witchery than offence. “My dear fellow,” Aziraphale began, “I believe you have the wrong person,” and Aziraphale raised his hands as if to ward the human off. the Angel really didn’t have time for these shenanigans. The Metatron had just told him that Heaven was gunning for the Apocalypse with full intent to destroy Earth, which likely meant that Hell was in on the agenda too, given that they’d been responsible for handing out the AntiChrist to humanity like it was candy. All this meant that Aziraphale was feeling a little bit frazzled and while he normally disapproved of impoliteness, Aziraphale had, frankly, better things to be do than to reassure a belligerent human and well, after a thousand years of ‘The Arrangement’, Aziraphale had become quite used to turning human heads away from the Divine. This moment was no different. 

Aziraphale huffed in exasperation, “I really have had quite enough of this, young man,” he told the steadily advancing Shadwell, “I am very busy right now and I think it is high time that you left my bookshop.”

Shadwell paused, mid-step, as the force of the occult command washed over him, glazing his eyes for a moment, and with a jerky nod, Shadwell turned about-face and left Aziraphale’s shop once more. 

Aziraphale waited, just long enough to work out that the human was not returning anytime soon, before turning on the ball of his foot and doing a circumspect check of his shop, noting that everything was in order. The Gateway to Heaven would have to remain open; no sense in giving Heaven advance notice of his intentions. With a quick, guilty glance upwards that skated well past such structures such as ceilings, floors, and roofs to high above where Heaven resided, armed and ready to descend upon the hoards of Hell, Aziraphale ducked from his bookshop, the door slamming a little bit harder than he would ordinarily allow as a gust of wind caught the broadside and sent it back into its jamb, the lock snicking tightly shut.

Luck is a funny thing. Often humanity get caught up in statistical probability, notice a pattern, and call it ‘likely’; Angels don’t get caught up in statistical probability, rarely notice a pattern, and tend to call anything they don’t understand ‘ineffable’. A wind capable of picking up the broadside of a heavy oak front door is likely, to humans, to be able to knock over any of half a dozen openly flaming candles set about a heavenly doorway, displace said candles in such a way as to light any one of thousands of irreplaceably rare books. This is why, when Crowley invented banks and interest loans that scalped consumers and made bankers a great deal of immoral money, humanity took it one step further and invented insurance policies to protect their valuables against disasters. Aziraphale, however, is not human and doesn’t really believe in insurance (he’s pretty sure Crowley invented it; Crowley, if you asked, is just as certain Aziraphale invented it but definitely has his Bentley insured for far too much money because it seemed like the sort of thing to do), and thusly, is unaware of the dangers that open flames and books and gusting winds present; or, more accurately, he IS aware, but Aziraphale is an angel who has warded his shop against disaster but disaster doesn’t really included angelic intervention and the candles about the gateway ceased to be mortal and became mostly-ethereal and so, burnt through the Principality’s possessions with all the force of a small wildfire.

The long and the short of it was that Crowley, running from the demonic interference in his life, came to a skidding stop outside a merrily burning bookshop with crowds of police officers, firemen, and relatively-innocent bystanders surrounding the general vicinity. Crowley barely knew what he was doing as he staggered from his car, eyes affixed upon the burning building, and shoved his way through the crowded humans in a desperate bid to reach his best friend. 

Crowley, who had just dealt with both Hastur and Ligur, dukes of Hell and moderately unpleasant beings, in the past two hours, who had received a phone call from Aziraphale not thirty minutes ago, who now stormed through the heavy front door of Aziraphale’s bookshop and _screamed_ for the Angel he feared would be inside. 

Time, when someone is in deep distress, has a tendency to melt like glue about their person. Aching and thick to wade through, time dragged in a way that Crowley had never experienced before. It was hot inside the burning bookshop and though Crowley knew that demons were moderately fireproof, he wasn’t sure if that would hold up against hellfire and there was no way that this here and now wasn’t hellfire because Aziraphale wasn’t _here_. “ _Aziraphale, where **are** you?!_” Struggling to see, Crowley was sure that could feel evil all over, vaguely comforting and warm because evil always felt like that to him, but Crowley couldn’t tell if it was his specific brand of evil or if it was anothers’. The smoke of the flames stung his eyes and Crowley’s sure that was why when he blinked, tears fell down his cheeks, sobs, surely from the smoke, choked his lungs and voice even as he screamed and screamed and screamed: repeating Aziraphale’s name again and again until it became an incomprehensible blur of desperate white noise.

A window broke and cold shocked over him, sending pain radiating across his skin. Crowley fell onto his back in the soot turned to mud, his knees slipping and sliding across hardwood floors, struggling upright only to be knocked over again as a second stream joined the first. “ _Aziraphale_!” Crowley called again, his voice high pitched in devastation and grief, no longer sure if tears wet his face or if it was the rain created by the arcing water jetted in by thick, heavy hoses directed by burly firemen outside. 

Staggering to his feet for the third time, Crowley’s hands landed on a book and insensitive to everything around him but the loss of Aziraphale, Crowley staggered out into the burning sunlight, eyes bared to the humans that gawked outside and Crowley fell unimpeded into his bentley, the only surviving of Aziraphale’s books cradled on his lap. The rumble of the engine didn’t quite mask the shattered moans as Crowley whispered Aziraphale’s name, his free hand stroking over the leather bound cover of the book, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Crowley drove to get away; everything was done for: the apocalypse was only hours away, Crowley had no idea where the AntiChrist was, and he was surely being hunted by the demons of Hell for his betrayal, or would be, the minute Hastur got free of his digital prison. There was nothing left anymore. There was nothing left for _Crowley_ anymore. Not here; and soon enough, not forever.

Back at Crowley’s flat, a very trapped demon received a lucky break in the form of a call centre call. Normally, call centres aren’t celebrated and ironically, despite their being a bane of his existence, Crowley had in fact invented them. Or rather, he had invented their precursor: the door knock salesman that was very popular in the 20′s and 30′s; but the rise of the telephone had phased out the door knock salesman and call centres had taken their place. A bizarre form of natural selection that not even Darwin would approve of.

Aziraphale opened Crowley’s flat to the sound of a long beep of the answering machine and an unholy cackle of demonic glee. The scent of sulphur and fear hung heavy on the air, along with something bitter and melted like burning rubber. Moving through the flat past the room with all Crowley’s plants that still shivered in terror, Aziraphale came to a stop outside the office. The door was flung wide open and the first thing that Aziraphale noticed was not the ostentatious throne of red and gold, or the original flat sketch of the Mona Lisa by DiVinci himself, but rather the oozing black puddle of demonic residue that lay in the middle of the doorway. Aziraphale felt horror catch his throat as there on the desk he spied the pastel coloured, tartan patterned flask he had given Crowley decades ago as insurance. There was no sign of gloves or anything to help handle the holy water and Aziraphale carefully picked his way around the demonic remains, holding his nose between a thumb and forefinger in a genteel manner feeling faintly nauseas from the smell.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out, remembering the decidedly odd phone call that he’d had with Crowley not an hour or so ago, and feeling moderately concerned.

Silence answered him back and Aziraphale spotted the blinking answering machine and a button that read play. Pressing the button, Aziraphale tilted his head as the message played back. With every moment that slipped by, Aziraphale felt his face grow paler and paler: Hastur, once a Seraph, now Duke of Hell and immensely more powerful than even he, and he quite outweighed Crowley in the power scale of Ethereal vs. Occult. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out for a second time, back tracking around the pile of demonic sludge that was more ooze than being and Aziraphale refused to contemplate that perhaps Crowley hadn’t been successful in his trap, that it was he, Crowley, who lay as that pile of goo, not an adversary. “Crowley, are you here?”

Silence remained and Aziraphale was beginning to feel a measure of panic overwhelm him. The plants shook in their pots and there were no answers forthcoming from the various artworks and sculptures that Crowley had collected over the years; all Aziraphale could feel was indifference and evil within these walls. Slowly, Aziraphale edged to the sludge and tried to pick out anything from within it the might give him some confirmation as to whom lay therein. Nothing remained that could be identified at a quick glance and Aziraphale was left at a loss, fear overcoming him for his friend. A quick trip into the kitchen had Aziraphale locating a barbecue fork to overturn through the sludge and with delicacy, Aziraphale sifted. Black clothing, which wasn’t unusual, because: demon. A tooth, rather blunt for Crowley, surely? A glint of gold… a necklace… and Aziraphale felt something in his chest still at the sight.

Coincidence is, rather like luck, ineffable at times. Back in the 80′s, Crowley had failed to wow Hell (other than Lucifer, who had wahoo’d devilishly) with his M25 plans and Ligur, had at the time, been Beelzebub’s current favourite brutaliser and advisor (you’d be surprised by how often those two go hand in hand when in Hell). Crowley, after his presentation, had slipped Ligur an old necklace of solid gold as a bribe to give him a good word in the ear of the boss. Hastur, who was Beelzebub’s other favourite, had been gifted a large black jacket (that a hellhound later shredded). Coincidence would be Aziraphale recognising the once-bribe (a highly recommended practice in Hell) as something he’d seen Crowley buy back in the 1700′s when jewellery had been chunky, heavy, and a mark of wealth and circumstance. (Crowley had worn it once, decided it was gaudy, and never wore it again). 

Aziraphale felt like sinking into the floor as grief overwhelmed him. Crowley was gone. Aziraphale had dallied too long in dealing with the human and now ~~his-~~ the Serpent was dead. Unmade. Dissolved into nothing at all. 

Reeling, Aziraphale stumbled from Crowley’s flat, unable to remain there any longer and equally unable to breathe. Blindly, Aziraphale reeled into the sunlight, swaying drunkenly in the bright light. Blinking burning eyes, the Angel started walking. Running. Fleeing. Until, sobbing, Aziraphale collapsed on the bench in the park where he and Crowley had spent so many years of time together, talking, conspiring, their friendship grown from a partnership based in circumstance and aiding each other. The only two of their kind here on Earth, sharing sights like ducks, sunsets, early mornings, trees, and each others smiles. Aziraphale buried his face into his hands and tried not to howl his desolation to the empty, uncaring heavens far above his head. 

Shaking as he dragged himself from the pit of despair, Aziraphale found himself staring out across the water and remembering Crowley’s snarky words eleven years ago “no more ducks, no more dinners at the Ritz… no more, this” and he heaved a long, slow sigh. Aziraphale knew where the Apocalypse would happen but he didn’t know if he could care enough to do anything about it. Didn’t know if he could do this without Crowley, the wily serpent who kept him on his toes, always positive and determined to see the best in everything. Who loved humanity, who adored this world, who had found a home outside Hell after Falling, who kept going, even when perhaps he shouldn’t…

Spine straightening, Azirphale wiped his cheeks and stood. “For Crowley, then,” Aziraphale determined, looking out over the duck pond that Crowley had professed to hate… but Aziraphale had seen him at on his own more often than not. A faint, wry smile crossed his lips. Azirphale would save this world, would save this Earth and this humanity that she carried, for Crowley. For Crowley, Aziraphale wondered at Heaven’s horror if they ever knew: an angel fighting because of a demon, for neither Heaven or Hell, but for Humanity.

Crowley had, after stumbling punch-drunk into the nearest bar from grief, proceeded to get actually-drunk by the way of copious amounts of hard liquor. Drowning ones sorrows, Crowley was coming to realise, was quite unlike drowning one’s self in holy water; for one, Crowley wasn’t discorporated, for two, he was regrettably less affected than he’d hoped to be. Across the room, a serious looking bartender filled another empty vodka bottle with water before he refilled Crowley’s empty glass. 

Hoping to distract the clearly disconsolate man that was spilled all across one of his tables, the bartender tapped the charred cover of the book Crowley had brought in with him and asked: “what’s this about?”

And Crowley, who was contemplating asking a Priest to Bless him on Hallowed Ground before dunking him in Holy Water, blinked blearily and lifted his head to stare at the bartender who stood over him. “Wot’s wot?” He slurred, mostly incomprehensibly because he was surely drunk (it had taken nearly half a bottle of gin before the bartender had realised that Crowley intended to drink himself insensate) but not nearly drunk enough because he could still hear, see… feel.

“The book,” the bartender prompted with a measure of desperation, because while the man wore glasses, there was something terribly terrifying about that face, something in the curve of his mouth, made for sneering and smirking more than smiling.

“Book?” Crowley slid backwards and hauled the tome close to his bleary eyes and blinked rapidly at the cover. Rage overcame him as Crowley realised that this wasn’t one of Aziraphale’s collectables, but rather that ~~fucking b-~~ _witches_ book. Crowley threw it with a roar before snatching the bottle from the bartenders hand and draining near to half in a single gulp.

The bartender reeled backwards, hands up to fend off the suddenly wrathful being before him, and ducked away to pick up the book. Flicking open the cover, the bartender blinked at the words contained therein: _aye barkeep, tis well feared that serpent that doth lie across thine floor_ (here Crowley flopped unceremoniously onto the floor, crying heavily once more) _but know thee well that thine End is at hand, send thee the serpent to Taddes field where the Eastern Sword doth await him_

“Uh,” the barkeep stammered, “it says you need to go to Taddes Field?”

Crowley jerked as if shocked, eyes shooting open behind dark glasses, and leapt upright, sober as the day was young yet and made his way over to the bartender’s side. “Wot?”

Crowley’s gaze skipped Agnes’ words, instead immediately recognising Azriaphales’ handwriting on the borders and slip of paper that covered the right leafs text. “Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered like a prayer, “you figured it all out, you canny bastard.”

In a flurry of movement, the bartender was alone once more, left staring at his empty hands where a paper cut bled sluggishly, stinging faintly along with the throb of his too-fast pulse. 

Flying down the M25, Crowley blasted AC/DC’s “Somebody to Love” as he avoided the traffic by riding the shoulder, fury in every line of his body. A thump beside him had Crowley glancing over, spotting a livid Hastur in his passenger seat, but Crowley was on a mission from ~~his-~~ an Angel and he would be Blessed before a goddamned Demon interfered with his work. Shifting gears, Crowley floored the Bentley and aimed directly into the mouth of the flames that roared thousands of kilometres into the air above. 

Hastur, who’d been about to start gloating, started shrieking in fear.

Then there was nothing but AC/DC’s refrain and Crowley’s heavy, determined breathing: he had made it through the fire. He would reach Tadfield in record time.

Aziraphale was on a mission for Crowley and needed to reach Tadfield posthaste. Regrettably, however, Aziraphale could not drive, which necessitated in him… demanding that another take him. Tracking down Shadwell had been easy, getting his compliance had been harder, and in the end, Shadwell, it turned out, couldn’t drive either. Madam Tracy on the other hand, could. Now they flew, as only Angelicly-interfered vehicles could, high above the city streets and well out of reach of the demonic hellfire that encircled London. Azirphale, while disapproving, couldn’t help but smile at Crowley’s cleverness. The old Serpent really had outdone himself this time. 

They would reach Tadfield in record time.

In the small town of Tadfield, four children turned onto the final stretch of road that led to an old American airbase and the one leading the charge, opened the old creaking gates with a wave of his hand even as they rode through; behind them, the shouts of the gate’s guard followed them, growing louder as first a trio of people on a motor scooter drove through, and then, impossibly, a burning 1927 Bentley. 

Aziraphale dismounted the bike to the sound of the AntiChrist calling for the Four Horsemen, fear on his small face. Striding forwards, the Principality tried to think what Crowley would do in this situation, Shadwell and Madam Tracy hanging back even as they watched on in growing fear. “Young man!” Aziraphale called out, getting Adam’s attention, “could you please…” only to stutter to a stop as a voice shouted:

“AZIRAPHALE?!!” 

And the Angel turned to see a tall, lanky, black-clad, demon striding towards him, eyes slitted like a snakes and… _brimming_ _with unshed tears_.

“ _Crowley?_ ” Aziraphale’s voice ached with sudden and immense gladness and he wrapped his arms about the demon’s chest tightly, unable to hold back his own tears of once-lost-now-found. “Crowley.”

“ **Angel** ,” Crowley choked, stunned and reeling, “ ** _you’re here_** ; I thought you were _dead_ , but _you’re_ _here_!”

Aziraphale hugged the demon back, “ _I thought you’d died too_ ,” he admitted, pain clinging as tightly to his voice as he did to Crowley.

The two Ethereal/Occult beings clung to each other, faces pressed together, reassuring themselves and the other that they were indeed alive. Crowley scented Aziraphale’s collar and shivered at the scent of sulphur that lingered overlaying the smell of pine, old books, and must that came from old things, namely Aziraphale’s ridiculous jacket. Aziraphale felt Crowley worm in tighter, short hair tickled his nose even as Crowley heaved a sigh into his collarbones. 

This was as close to perfection that either had felt in-

“Excuse me,” a small, piping voice interjected, “but you’re actually interrupting something right now.”

Aziraphale and Crowley pulled apart self consciously, turning to see the Four Horsemen staring at them incredulously, the AntiChrist staring at his friend, who had spoken up and was also staring at the Angel and the Demon, albeit curiously.

“We,” Crowley rolled his neck, “we know,” he admitted, swaggering closer. “We’ve come to stop the apocalypse.”

“So have I,” Adam told Crowley, “aren’t you a demon?”

Crowley stared at Adam; Adam stared at Crowley. “I am,” Crowley agreed eventually. “You’re the AntiChrist.”

Adam rolled his eyes, preteen dismissiveness rising its head, “I know.”

Aziraphale inched closer, “so, does that mean the Apocalypse is off and chocolate cake can stay?”

Wensleydale frowned, “actually, you shouldn’t eat a lot of chocolate cake, it’s not healthy for you.”

“I keep telling you to eat your vegetables, Angel,” Crowley couldn’t help but jibe.

Brian scowled at Crowley, suspiciously, “you really _are_ a demon, aren’t you?”

Crowley blinked, “I am.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” Pepper injected herself into the conversation, “but we’re Adam’s friends and they,” she pointed at the Four Horsemen, “are here to take him away; but Adam’s _**ours**_ , not _theirs_ , and they need to leave.”

Adam turned to Pepper and smiled, “tell them what you believe in, Pepper.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Tumblr post by corellon-grace: Okay but imagine if Aziraphale dodged the portal to Heaven, escaped the bookshop, and hurried to tell Crowley about the Antichrist, but all he found at his apartment was the puddle of holy water and demon goo next to a plant mister.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Come say [hi](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/)!!


End file.
